Feathers
by Flare Warrior
Summary: Daryl grows wings. Written for a prompt on the Walking dead kink meme.


_Merle is hunched over out on the deck, his head cradled in his hands. From his back, two raven-black wings arc upward and then flare out along the faded wood. Daryl's perception moves closer, close enough to touch, and then tiny hands do just that.  
"Pretty" he says as his fingers comb through downy feathers "Pretty! Fly"_

_Merle moves, to do what he doesn't know. As his hands fall away from his face and he turns to his little brother the dream fades away._

He'd had that dream again last night, the same dream he'd had since he was just a brat. Whatever the reason for it was, he figured he'd never know it now.

Daryl sits back against the cold metal island in the middle of the deserted restaurant kitchen. His gaze is fixed on the wooden door he'd come in from, but he hardly sees it. The restaurant had been a ritzy little place, not the sort he'd have ever set foot in before the dead rose up. Now though, with the dining area wrecked and the kitchen ransacked, it's lost its glamour. The group had been through here twice over the winter, so he knows the area well enough to know he won't be disturbed. He wipes sweat from his forehead and feels the unnatural heat that had made him leave the prison. Taking another swig from the cooking brandy he had found rolled under a counter; he clenches his other hand around the gun that contains a single round.

This is where he is going to die.

He's been scratched, bit, something, he doesn't know what, but he has the fever, burning through him like nothing else and threatening to turn him. But he won't go out like that, a walker having to be put down by his own people. So he had left that morning, put a note in his cell so they wouldn't go looking when he doesn't come back, and found a nice quiet place to work himself up to eating a bullet.

Except he's been trying for an hour and though the brandy had helped, he hasn't quite brought himself to a point where he can put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger yet. He'll get there.

He presses his back harder into the cool metal cupboard, feeling the incessant itch from the wound subside just slightly even though the throbbing ache gets just a bit worse. He doesn't know how he'd missed getting it, but it doesn't exactly matter now. It wouldn't have mattered then either, what with the placement of it. He'd woken up with red finger tips from digging at an itch on his shoulder blades, and when he got a good look over his shoulder in the mirror, he'd seen two angry red patches marring the already damaged skin on his back. Closer inspection of his shirt had shown a tear right about where one of the spots was, and he'd thought of a walker from the day before that had grabbed him. He'd taken it down quickly and moved on, but its nails must've bitten into his flesh just enough. Just enough to infect him.

A tinkling of glass from the dining area draws him from his thoughts and makes his hand tighten on the bottle of brandy. His body hums with tension while his eyes are glued to the door, waiting, his breathing the only audible sound. Then, he hears raspy breathing, shuffling feet. Something bumps into the door. It swings inward, then back, then inward again. It moves on. After a few minutes of silence he exhales and leans his head back against the island.

Blond, eyeless and rotten, there's a walker not three feet from him, propped up on one bony hand while the other shoots out to tear his flesh from his bones. He swears violently and swings the bottle of brandy at the thing's head, shattering the glass, and shoves himself sideways to avoid being caught. He has no idea where it came from, but he doesn't have time to look around when the thing gets back up and comes at him again. He gets to his feet and jams the jagged edge of the bottle into the walker's eye socket when it tries to come up after him, because he'd be damned if he's going to become a meal for one of these monsters on top of dying.

He hadn't been quiet enough because another one comes through the door seconds later.

He pulls the bottle out of the first one's skull and goes to swing for the base of the second's, but a searing, white-hot pain from his back makes him miss. He gasps as his vision returns to some semblance of normal, glancing at the walker that's now impaled through the neck and limp from there down.

The oak door thuds and swings inward again as another walker comes toward the sound of struggle. He pulls the bottle free and sees the severed spine of the second walker as it falls to the floor, its jaws snapping and eyes rolling in its head. Daryl drops his too-loud gun and charges the door with all the strength he has left. He slams his shoulder into it and the walker is caught halfway into the kitchen, flailing and reaching for Daryl with crazed hunger. Daryl struggles to keep the thing there and bring up the bottle once more. Finally, he manages to jam the glass up through the thing's chin and into its brain, and he slams the door shut and shoves the broom that's leaning next to him into the door handle just as the agony in his spine reaches a pinnacle that sees him blacked out on the floor.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

_The deer he's tracking looks up and he freezes in the brush. Its ears twitch this way and that, looking for the source of the sound._

Snap.

_Daryl curses as a stick breaks under his boot and the deer bolts. He'd been so close to having a damn good meal, too._

Snap. Snap.

_"Better watch out little brother"_

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Daryl opens his eyes groggily as the repetitive sound draws him from his dream. He sees one of his hands upturned on the floor by his face and something white beyond it. He feels like he'd been dragged half the distance of Georgia through mud and tar. Something is heavy on his back, and his skin feels colder than summer in Georgia should allow. Absently he reaches up to shove whatever's on him off- but it doesn't budge. It's soft and wet under his fingers and he swears he feels a pull like it's attached. Still dizzy and dazed but acutely more aware, he pulls his hand back - now tacky with drying blood - and looks over his shoulder. There, sprouting from his back, are two puffy, big, and white...wings. He jolts up onto his hands and knees- and promptly tips sideways from the added and unbalanced weight, forced to catch himself on his elbows. The action brings him face to face with the mostly decapitated walker, its jaws still snapping hungrily even though it can't quite reach him. The thing couldn't have been more than a foot from him for the whole while he was passed out on the floor.

"Shit!" Daryl curses and shoves the thing away harshly, propelling himself back against the island again in the process.

The impact causes more pain than it should have and forces his breath from his lungs, the brunt of it taken by the new appendages he can see splayed out on the floor in either direction.

Panic and denial shoot through his gut at the sight. He grabs hold of the one on the right, one hand wrapping around the bone in the top at a slightly awkward angle and the other scrabbling for purchase through thick feathers on the bottom, and frantically tries to tear the damn thing off. "What the _fuck_" he mumbles distressedly when it doesn't budge, and instead creates an uncomfortable feeling beneath his shoulder blade when he pulls harder. It takes him longer than it should to realize what he's doing is pointless because no, he cannot be this weird, people don't just grow wings, he cannot fucking have wings. With another frustrated curse he eventually gives up, panting from the exertion and stress. He feels light headed and notices the blood smeared in generous amounts on the things growing out of his back, spattered on the walls, and slick on the floor beneath his boots. Hell, it looks like everything in the room had gotten a misting of the stuff. His appraising glance lands on the feathery things that had most likely brought him out here in the first place. They're huge, going from one end of the kitchen to the other and still bent up in the middle, the bone he'd had his grip on earlier had been too big for him to wrap his hand around completely. His mind rejects the sight vehemently, never mind the fact that he would never be able to keep them away from a horde of walkers, or that he could barely even crawl with how they screwed up his balance.

They had to come off.

He doesn't have his knife on him (left for the others-and fuck he probably isn't even infected) and though the broken bottle of brandy was good for stabbing, it would not be good for cutting. It is also still lodged in the skull of a walker out in the dining area, so he reaches his hands up to the countertop, searching, since this is a kitchen and there would have to be knives. Even if he'd picked over this kitchen himself for anything useful, it is still a damn kitchen. His fingertips hook over a handle and he pulls what he hopes is a cleaver down. Objects clatter around him as he brings it- a cutting board, not a cleaver- into his view. He curses and throws it randomly, looking at the other things that had fallen. A grater, a spatula, a few things he can't name- and a wire with handles. Cheese wire, his mind supplies, though how he knows that he isn't sure. Something moves outside of the kitchen. He's out of options. He snatches up the wire and slings it over his new appendages, then swaps handles underneath. Taking a deep breath and steadying his grip, he yanks it tight. He'd been shot, stabbed, cut, bruised, and beaten repeatedly over the last year, but all of it combined didn't hold a candle to the white-hot searing agony that explodes from his back and radiates all the way to his fingertips from the action. The wooden handles slip from his grasp as he tries to draw air into his suddenly empty lungs. Walkers are banging at the door, and he wonders if maybe he'd screamed.

He thinks about trying again, but given how little a ways he'd made it through the new flesh before having to stop he decides it's a stupid idea with just wire at his disposal. He tosses the cheese wire, now bloodied, aside with the cutting board.

For now, he has to get out and back to the prison. He uses the counter to push himself to his feet and the wings follow, limp and useless to his sides. Daryl looks down at them and wills them to at least fold. It's an unrewarding task, but he starts to feel aware of new muscles at his disposal. He tests them, and the wings finally move. After a few precious minutes, multiple tries and several strings of curses, he has them up off the floor and arched behind his back. One quick glance around the room reveals where the first walker came from, a meat locker that had been less sealed than he had originally thought, and nothing of value except a long brown trench coat hanging on a rack of dishes. It could work to hide his wings for a while.

He lets go of the counter with one hand, testing his legs out to see if they'll hold him. He wobbles, but stays upright. He only stumbles once on his way over to grab the trench coat and catches himself on the long cooking island when he does. Getting the thing on proves to be yet another challenge. First he has to fight to reach the second sleeve, then the tops of the wings arc far beyond the reach of the collar. In what is quite possibly the first thing to go right all day, he reaches up to shove one down and it goes without much resistance. Daryl doesn't look the gift horse in the mouth, instead repeating the process and moves to pick up the gun he'd dropped earlier and stuff it in his pocket. He stomps the heel of his boot through the head of the decapitated but still struggling walker and turns his attention to getting out. The walkers on the other side of the door pound and scratch ominously, the sounds occasionally punctuated by wood splintering. 'Ain't makin' it out that way', Daryl muses. There's another door on the other side of the kitchen, so he makes his way over to it and listens closely. Hearing nothing clawing to get in, he carefully cracks it open. Blinding sunlight meets his eyes, and once they adjust he can actually see his motorcycle about fifty feet away. Between him and it there are a few walkers milling about. He isn't sure where they all came from, but the sight makes him wish he had his knife and crossbow with him. Both had been left in his cell for the others to use when he was gone. He hadn't wanted to take one of their guns, but a six shooter with shitty range and a single round wouldn't have been too much of a loss. Now that left him with only said gun to defend himself with though. He'd have to rely on stealth to get out of this one, and there is just enough underbrush to do it. He takes a deep breath and slinks outside.

Maggie and Glenn are minding the gate when he drives up and they spring into action at the sight of him. They have the gate closed and are coming over to him as he is putting his kickstand down.

"Daryl?!" Glenn sounds stunned, then glances at his motorcycle - which is now sporting some ugly scuffs "What happened?"

"Got charged by some' walkers" He supplies, hoping Glenn will let it drop. He is too exhausted to deal with questions.

"Are-are you okay?" Both Maggie and Glenn stop further away than usual, something in their eyes that Daryl can't read. "'m fine" he slings himself off the Harley, hoping he doesn't look as unbalanced as he feels.

"You don't look fine" Maggie says evenly, as Glenn added "Jesus Daryl, where have you been?"

"I went out, is all, now quit naggin' me" Daryl snaps in response, then storms off into the prison. He barely notices the shocked glances he receives from Hershel, Beth and Carl as he makes his way up to his cell, figuring he looks about as good as he feels. When he reaches his cell he sets the bloodied, empty six shooter next to his crossbow and collapses onto the cot, only awake long enough to cover himself up to his neck with the blanket to add one more layer between prying eyes and the feathers still hidden under his new trench coat.

* * *

Daryl opens his eyes groggily, unsure what had awoken him. Every part of him is sore, some more than others. His stiff muscles protest heavily when he moves to sit up in the bed. The move turns awkward when one of his wings bends on the mattress. The events of the previous day come back to him in a rush at that. Riding off to die, growing wings in a walker-infested restaurant, and trying to escape said restaurant alive. He reaches under his appropriated coat to be sure it was real, and his fingers brush the feathers of his right wing. He curses under his breath and runs his hand over the edge he could reach. When he reaches the top he finds it thick and folded over itself, the bone hinged downward and then back up in a sort of "N" shape that had made it possible to hide it beneath the coat. Hoping against hope, Daryl moves his hand down to the bottom of the wing and pushes up. It moves, but not in a smooth upward slide like the top. Instead this part swings sideways toward the other wing. He pushes it in that direction instead and meets the boundary of the fabric covering him. After a quick glance out the cell door, he shrugs out of the opposite arm of the coat and tries again. This time it goes up until it forms a diagonal line from his left hip to his right shoulder. The tip still sticks up past his head, but he soon finds that it bends down easily alongside the first diagonal part. Once he finds he can let go and the wing will hold the pose, he quickly repeats the process on the wing on the left. He almost laughs in relief when they are both bent up into manageable sized lumps on his back, but he figures that would seem a little crazy to anyone who heard him. Approaching footsteps have him slinging the trench coat back onto his shoulders as fast as he can. Rick appears in the doorway seconds later, concern etched into his features.

"I need to talk to you" Is all he says, and Daryl tries to be nonchalant.

"'bout what?" He asks evenly, leaning back carefully onto the wall by the head of the bed.

Rick pulls the chair in the corner of the room closer and sits down on it, his eyes leaving Daryl just long enough to glance at the pistol on the floor. When he's settled, he taps the back of his left hand and points to Daryl's own "Maggie said your bike was a mess. It looked like you tipped it"

Daryl glances down at the ugly scrapes on his hand from the tarred road. Seconds after he'd finally made it to his motorcycle and gotten going one of his wings caught the wind and he couldn't correct for it. "I ran into some walkers"

Rick nods "I think you might want to have Hershel look at that later"

Daryl grunts an affirmative and razes an eyebrow "What's this really about Rick?"

Rick's demeanor doesn't change as he reaches down and pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. Daryl recognizes it instantly and averts his eyes.

"Daryl, what was this?" Rick asks calmly, but Daryl can hear the strain in his voice.

"Thought I'd been scratched or somthin'. 'S just a fever"

Rick's jaw works a bit before his next words "Why didn't you go to Hershel first?"

Daryl shrugs, but aborts the movement when his wings start to unfold "What's the point once you're infected?"

"You weren't infected"

"I didn't know that"

"Hershel might have" Rick's words come out forcefully.

Daryl doesn't respond, knowing Rick isn't done. Rick took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair.

"I didn't find this" the other man brandishes the note in his hand "Carol did. Did you ever think about how she might feel knowing you were out there, sick and planning to die all by yourself? How any of us would feel?"

"As 'pposed to what? Me sittin' here puttin' the rest o' the group in danger?" Daryl said defensively "Weren't any good options Rick"

"Look, Daryl, I get what you were trying to do. But you're one of us, and we could've helped you-"

"I didn't need anyone's help with dyin'"

"God damn it Daryl, that's not what I'm saying!" Rick snaps "I'm tired - we're _all_ tired of not being able to say goodbye"

Rick's words strike a chord in him, and though he tries to hide it he knows Rick sees. He stays quiet.

Rick takes one more deep breath "Promise me that if this ever happens again, you'll tell someone before you tear off with our worst gun and one bullet"

Daryl stares at his hands for a moment, then nods.  
"Yeah. Yeah, okay"

"Good. Thank you" Rick reaches out and rests a hand on his shoulder, and Daryl tenses at how close he is to touching his folded wings. "I'm glad you're alright, Daryl" he says carefully, then stands up. "Everyone wants to see you. You've been out for a while, they're getting worried"

Daryl wants to ask how long 'a while' is, but figures that would make him look even worse off. "Don't need t' worry 'bout me"

Rick's eyes sweep over the room, his crossbow and the bloody gun, him, and he can only imagine how he looks, and the man chuckles "Just come down when you're ready"

Daryl spends a few minutes after Rick leaves trying to figure out if he should be offended or not. Eventually he gives up and focuses on the burn in his wings from holding their position so long and how to fix that; and goes about digging for something more comfortable to wear than a trench coat.

When he comes down a while later, a poncho slung over his shoulders because a few feathers had peaked out from under his usual leather jacket, he finds a good bunch of the group sitting around the table shooting the breeze. Carol comes over to him slowly and places a hand on his arm.

"You look terrible" She says by way of greeting, and he feels his lips quirk upward.

"Don't feel much better" he replies.

She smiles lightly and gestures to the table "Well, come on and sit. I saved you some dinner"

Daryl follows her over to the table and accepts the soup offered to him. Hershel takes one look at his hand and starts getting out medical supplies, while Beth feeds Judith, and Glenn and Maggie talk animatedly about something or other, occasionally trying to draw others in. Axel and Oscar stay off by themselves, looking over at him and the others from time to time.

No one says anything about him taking off, for which he's glad, even if they do keep shooting glances his way. They don't comment on the poncho either, and so it works out for a few days. Things fall back to normal, Glenn surprises him by patching the worst of the dings in the motorcycle, and summer in Georgia continues on.

But unfortunately for him, summers in Georgia are unbearably warm. It's almost two weeks later that it becomes a problem.

The cracked thermostat by the entrance reads one-hundred and four, but closer inspection shows that a shard of plastic is keeping it from going any higher than that. Everyone is outside because the prison is an oven without air conditioning to cool it down, and almost everyone has stripped down to the least they can stand to be in and still be comfortable under the beating sun. Almost everyone with the exception of Daryl, who stubbornly refused to take off any of his layers - especially the now ever-present poncho.

"You're gonna get heat stroke if you keep that on, Daryl" Beth warns from her spot out on the grass.

Daryl, who had settled in the shade the building provided, waves her off and took a swig from his canteen.

"Suit yourself" She shrugs and goes back to sunbathing.

Glenn and Carl run by, kicking a basketball they'd found and laughing merrily. Maggie drawls that it's too hot out to be running around from the grass beside her sister, and is ignored. Carol is at a table that'd been pushed into the shade cooing to Judith a little ways away, the woman's eyes crinkling at the corners, while Hershel mixes up some formula beside them. Axel and Oscar are playing poker at another table with a deck of cards they'd found stashed in one of the cells somewhere, and he can he can just make out Rick against the sun up in the guard tower, keeping a watchful eye on them all. Daryl wipes sweat from his forehead and goes back to whittling a few one-use arrows. One thing his wings have been good for is providing fletching for new ammo, but it still panicks him when he sees a white feather rolling around in the common area. Like somehow they would just see it and know where it came from. Glenn had actually mentioned their frequent appearance in passing and it had been all he could do to look impassive.

Aside from the scalding heat that makes him slightly dizzy, the day doesn't seem so bad.

He thinks he hears Glenn yell from a ways down the yard and glances up, on edge. He can't see what's wrong through the waves of heat blurring the air, but Rick a fires a shot and he's up and running through the fenced in walkway in seconds. Now he sees it- walkers inside the first fence, getting in through one of the holes they cut to come in by. Something must've happened to the stitching. He reaches the breach quickly and starts shooting down the ones already inside, Glenn on the other side of the second fence providing cover while Rick climbs down from the tower and comes running. Together they manage to get the fence closed back up, the walkers having had just enough persistence and dumb luck to finagle the clasp open. Daryl ties it this time with a knot that won't come undone before the fence falls. Rick wipes his face and looks around at the ten or so walkers they'd taken down.

"We should check the rest of these" He says, tapping the metal clip. Daryl nods, but the move blurs his vision. "Daryl?" Glenn says from behind him. He turns to look back but turns too quickly. Everything spins and he goes down.

"Shit, Daryl!" Rick is down beside him in a second, checking him over for wounds. Heat rises off him in waves. Daryl bats his hands away weakly when they brush too close to his back.

"He's probly' got heat stroke" Beth says from beside Glenn "He ain't taken that poncho off all day!"

Rick curses the stubborn man "Beth, go tell Hershel, Glenn, help me get him back up there"

Beth nods and takes off while Glenn darts through the door nearest to where Rick is. Glenn reaches them seconds later and together they manage to get the other man up into the shade with relative speed. Hershel already has cold water and rubbing alcohol at the ready when they set him down on his side by the building.

"What happened?" He asks as he comes over, the others milling about close by but staying out of the way.

"Walkers got through one of the clips. We took care of it, but then he just collapsed" Glenn supplies.

Hershel shakes his head and gets down beside them "I don't understand what he was thinking, wearing this in the middle of summer" he tugs the poncho up over Daryl's head, then raises his eyebrows at the mess of feathers he reveals in doing so.

"The hell kinda trophy has he decked himself out with this time?" Rick says in exasperation, leaning over slightly to get a better look at his back. Daryl seemed to have some small form of kleptomania surrounding his kills.

"I don't know, but it certainly could be part of the problem" Hershel replies. There are two belts holding the white downiness in place, one around the fluff itself and one slung around his chest to hold it to his back. Hershel makes short work of the second belt while Glenn gets up and Rick moves back to give him space, and then moves to pull the offending object away. He freezes up when it's a few inches away from Daryl's body, eyes going wide and making Rick's stomach drop.

"What is it?" Rick asks, hesitant.

Hershel's hand moves to touch Daryl's back for a moment, then he up looks straight into the other man's eyes and says "Rick, these are attached"

Immediately Rick fears the worst "You mean, like he sewed them on?"

Hershel shakes his head and gestures for Rick to lean back over and look. He does, and stares through the tear in his friend's shirt to the place where the feathers connect with flesh.

"That's not possible" He says, but his voice sounds far away to his own ears.

"Maggie, bring me the alcohol and a cloth. We need to cool him down" Hershel says. He tries to sound calm, but his hands are shaking when he takes the objects from her.

"How is that possible?" Rick asks no one in particular, rocking back to sit on the ground.

"I don't know Rick, but for now we need to focus on getting him well" Hershel stresses. He wets the cloth down with the rubbing alcohol and starts patting it over Daryl's forehead and neck.

"Daryl has wings?" Carl asks from behind Rick "Is...Is he an angel?"

Carol makes her way over and eases the cloth from Hershel's trembling hands, saying lightly "If he is, he's the most red neck angel I've ever seen"

When Daryl wakes up, he has a splitting headache and his mouth feels full of cotton. He groans and someone taps him on the shoulder to offer him a dented tin cup. He takes it and drinks the contents, cool water, greedily, then rubs bleary eyes and looks around. The sun has dipped enough in the sky for it to start cooling off, for which he's glad, but not enough to cast orange hues on the yard. Somehow he's back next to the prison, lying on a blanket that doesn't do much to soften the tar beneath it. Rick is leaning on the fence a ways away, staring out at the woods beyond their haven. Hershel is beside Daryl on the ground, eyes unreadable.

"How you feelin' son?" the older man asks carefully.

"Like shit" He responds as he pushes himself into a sitting position. Rick looks over then, his intent, searching gaze making Daryl uncomfortable.

"I got something on my face?" he asks a bit defensively. They both look like they want to say something, but before they do a gentle breeze, the likes of which they'd all been dreaming of earlier that day, ruffles through his feathers. Daryl snaps fully aware in an instant and pulls his wings in as tightly against himself as he knew how to, looking around quickly for something to cover up with.

"You got heat exhaustion, we were just trying to cool you down" Hershel said, a placating note in his voice "Daryl, how did this-?"

His poncho conspicuously missing, Daryl moves off the blanket and wraps it around his shoulders "I don't know" he says tersely.

"You _don't know_?" Hershel parrots in disbelief. He seems at a loss for words after that.

It's at this point that Rick decides to join the conversation. "When did you get them?" He asks, coming closer.

"When I left, that time" He answers after its clear Rick isn't going to let him not respond.

Rick reaches them and crouches in front of Daryl, speaking low as if he doesn't want someone to overhear. "You have to know _something _Daryl. People don't just grow wings-"

"I fuckin' know" He bites out, getting to his feet because their scrutiny makes him feel caged "I fuckin' know what a damn freak I am. I don't know nothin' 'bout why it happened, all I know is that they busted out o' me like they was just waitn' in there my whole fuckin life!"

Crunching gravel makes him look past Hershel to where Beth has come to stand, her eyes wide. Past her he notices the shadows of the others, all seated at the tables just around the corner. He grits his teeth when he realizes they must have all seen.

Rick stands up too, looking like he wants to say something, but Carl beats him to it.

"Can you fly?" He asks from beside Beth. His eyes are big and shiny with something Daryl isn't used to seeing. Suddenly, all eyes are on him. Daryl shifts uncomfortably. "I haven't tried" He mutters.

It's silent for a moment, but then Hershel seems to compose himself and gets to his feet with the help of his crutches. "Well, let's go inside and I'll take a look. Then we'll go from there"

Daryl shoots him a sideways glance "Why would I let you take a look?"

Ever patient, Hershel replies "You said they 'busted out of you'. Now I'm no expert on this, but I have to think that entails a fair bit of damage to the surrounding area. I just want to make sure it's healing up all right, get an idea of your wing span and shed whatever light I can on the situation. We can go into one of the cells, it shouldn't take too long"

Daryl is about to tell him to mind his own business, but a pointed look from Rick makes him hold his tongue.

"... There ain't room in the cells" He says reluctantly. Hershel's eyes flick to his back, then to his face, eyebrows raised in question.

"They're bigger 'n they look" He mutters, face heating just a bit. "You want me t' let 'em down and extend 'em right?" He asks slowly.

"Seems you'd have to, I can't see anything but feathers from your shoulders to your hips right now" Hershel responds, then nods and asks "Where would you suggest?"

Daryl pictures the things touching either wall of the restaurant kitchen when they first showed up, still bent in the middle though the Kitchen was plenty long. His eyes land on the yard beyond Rick, who sees it and picks up his thought process.

"The yard is the biggest space we got" He says "I'll come down to help Hershel; everyone else can stay up here"

Daryl's shuttered gaze flicks to him, reluctance obvious. Rick steps closer and places a hand on his shoulder "If anybody can figure this out, it'll be Hershel."

And Daryl nods, because he's right. Even if their doctor is only a veterinarian, there are no better options available. As they start walking down into the yard, a nagging voice in his mind comments that a vet is more fitting than a doctor for this particular problem.

Hershel helps him with the belt he'd used to hold the wings folded up, which he would've minded if it hadn't been a pain in the ass to get on in the first place.

"Get back" he says when it falls away. Hershel and Rick, who is still close in case Hershel needed support, comply. Once they do Daryl relaxes and let his wings unfurl, the lower part coming down first and brushing the grass. The muscles are stiff from spending so long in one position and he has to fight back a groan as they snap open.

"Wow" Rick says from behind him "That's-"

"Ain't done yet" Daryl mutters.

The tops of his wings are a little trickier. He has almost figured out how to move them without using his hands, but not quite, so he reaches around to give them both a nudge upwards. They move slowly, even stiffer than the lower halves had been, and this time he does grunt when they snap into place. They arc above his head by a full foot and a half, and flair out slightly once they're completely undone, spanning out beside him further still.

"...Wow" Rick states again.

They stay quiet for a while longer, so Daryl takes a moment to catch his suddenly short breath. He can feel eyes on him from the direction of the prison, but he forces himself to ignore the feeling. Hershel seems to get himself together finally and crutches himself closer.

"Quite impressive" He says when he's near Daryl. His voice sounds forced, like he's straining to sound normal "I don't suppose you can get your shirt off over them?"

Daryl shrugs at that, a move that causes his wings to shift. Getting dressed had become an every morning struggle, trying to get something on his back past the oversized wings there. Mostly he would cut gashes in the shirt, unfold the bottom half of his wings only and eventually manage to slide the cloth over the feathery appendages, which had led to him only wearing shirts that buttoned. Now that they are completely lose, he really only had one way of getting it off. Discreetly turning so that his back isn't to the prison, he reaches back and tore the holes he'd cut for his wings the rest of the way to the bottom of his shirt, then pulls it over his head.

"Well, that's one way of doing it." Hershel said, then after a moment one of the veterinarian's hands comes to rest on his left wing. "It looks like you had quite a wound here. It's healing up well though. I'll give you some antibiotics when we get back inside, just to be sure" he presses lightly on Daryl's shoulder "Would you mind turning just a bit?"

Daryl complies, still careful of his angle toward the others by the prison. Hershel's hand rests back on his left wing, then his right, pressing to feel the joints and muscles. "Well they aren't like any wings I've ever worked with. How did these happen?" He asks as he taps one of the gashes still healing from the cheese wire.

"Tried t' cut 'em off" Daryl supplies, shifting uncomfortably. He could practically _feel _Rick's disapproving gaze even before the other man came around into his vision.

"What stopped you?" He asks, because he knows not much can stop Daryl once he gets set on something.

"Felt like I just about tried to gouge out an organ. Never felt no pain like it" He replies.

"Probably a defense mechanism. It's a good thing you stopped; you've got a massive artery going through this one. I don't think you would've survived a minute, even if you'd had a full medical staff present." Hershel traces something in his left wing, what he could only assume is the artery. "The other one doesn't seem to have that issue, but this one won't come off without killing you in the process"

Hershel came around then too, eyebrows drawn together in thought, and Rick looks over at him for a verdict.

"I've never seen anything like it. I haven't got a clue how it happened either, I'm sorry to say" Hershel is still staring at Daryl's wings, his confusion and wonder evident.

"Do you have any guesses what caused it?" Rick asks, finally glancing away to look at the vet.

Hershel puffs out a breath, then says "If I had to guess...I'd say it's hereditary."

Rick's silence is telling, so Daryl takes the opportunity to speak up "You sayin' this is a family trait?"

"Yes, of some sort. It's unlikely that exposure or illness would cause you to grow wings. There's a chance someone related to you might know something"

"Like Merle" Daryl says. He wonders if his brother is even still alive, not for the first time. Merle had known more about their extended family than he had, mostly because their father shut everyone out after their mother's death. Merle had been older at than him at that time, old enough to remember.

"That's your brother, correct? He may" Hershel nods.

"That's a lot of maybes" Rick states, resting a hand on his hip. Hershel sighs "It's all we've got, Rick"

The leader seems to consider that, then nods with a slightly worried look still marring his features. Daryl moves to sling what's left of his shirt on but Hershel's voice stops him.

"Hold on a second, son" The old man moves himself closer, eyes on Daryl's chest. "Well, I'll be. It looks like your muscle structure's shifted around a bit to accommodate your wings."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Daryl asks, pulling the shirt over his head while Hershel moves back again.

"It means that, depending on your wing span, you may actually be able to fly" He pauses "Well, not fly, but glide a bit at least. If you'll extend them I can tell you"

Daryl glances up to the prison unconsciously and sees the shadows of the others against the fence.

"I'll send them inside" Rick says, but Daryl shakes his head. It isn't like they can hide anything from each other anyway. Carefully he rolls his shoulders and flexes the muscles in his wings. He hasn't splayed them out since the restaurant, so he has no idea what to expect. Slowly, he starts to move the unfamiliar muscles outward. He's instantly aware of the breeze then, and pauses when he feels the first odd sensation of something straightening out even though he'd thought they were only bent once in the middle. Grimacing, he pushes onward, many more jarring sensations of things snapping into place sparking up his wings and into his shoulder blades as he keeps extending them. It takes longer than he thinks it should for him to reach the limit, and when he glances to the side he sees why. White feathers, now starting to look dirty like the rest of him, extend about forty feet to either side of his body, far longer than even he had imagined. It seemed that even when he let them down they were still folded in on themselves. The breeze picks up and he almost stumbles as it catches the curve of his wings, and his knees almost buckle at just how amazing it feels.

Hershel huffs out an amazed laugh, his eyes shining brightly.

"Well?" Daryl asks and somehow manages to hide his own surprise.

"Well" Hershel repeats "If you can figure it out, you just might be able to fly."

"You mean glide?" Rick asks, voice quieter than usual and a little less weighted.

"No. I mean fly"

"Wooow..." Carl breaths, eyes wide with wonder as he looks over the yard at Daryl's fully extended wings in the slowly dying light of the day. His expression is covered by Oscar's awed laugh and Glenn's quiet-enough-to-not-be-heard-by-Daryl exclamation of "That is so awesome"

Beth covers her mouth and whispers "Oh my god" to herself, while Oscar claps a hand on Axel's shoulder.

"Look at that! Oh, I am glad I lived to see this" He says to his friend, who nods slowly, eyes never leaving the scene before him.

"How's that even possible? How'd they get so big?" Maggie asks no one in particular.

Carol stares out at the scene, her vision suddenly blurry at the sight.

"Amazing" she says softly. Judith shifts in her arms a moment later and it brings her back down to earth. She hushes at the little girl and glances back up in time to see Daryl steal a glance their way. Carol looks over at them to see what he sees, all eyes trained on him, awed and unconsciously staring. She takes one last look down at the beautiful sight before taking Maggie's hand. When the girl looks at her, she nods at the entrance to the prison.

Maggie stares at her uncomprehendingly just for a moment before what she's saying gets through. The younger girl nods and tugs Glenn away from the fence. He protests until she murmurs something in his ear. One by one, they make their way back inside and settle in. When Rick, Daryl and Hershel come in after them it's to a warm dinner and a quiet night.

* * *

Axel is standing out on the walkway looking out on the yard when Carol walks out to tell him it's time for lunch.

"I always thought god had forgotten about me" he says without prompting.

"What do you mean?" Carol asks, rolling with the abrupt existential mood Axel appears to be in.

"After I got locked up in here, along with all the other stuff that went wrong in my life, I just assumed he forgot. But your friend...he's got wings"

Carol gives him a gentle look "Daryl isn't an angel" She says carefully, a little sad that she has to take away the peace he thinks he's found.

"I know" He says, surprising her. "I know that much. But maybe it's His way of giving us a sign. Of saying He hasn't forgotten us."

They spend a moment in silence out in the walkway before Axel chuckles "If that's really the case, it's no wonder He put the wings on Daryl. That's about the only way that man would believe it happened"

Carol laughs lightly and heads back inside, Axel trailing along behind her.

* * *

"Amen" Hershel says, and the girls murmur the same.

"Daddy, do you think Daryl really doesn't know what happened?" Beth asks softly after his sermon. Hershel takes her hand in his bigger one. "I think he knows as much as the rest of us. The lord works in mysterious ways, Beth, and they're as much a mystery to Daryl as they are to us. If he was sent to us, then we should be grateful, but he's still just a man" Beth looks down and nods, some small hope seeming to fade in her eyes. Hershel hears someone shifting and glances up to see Rick near the entryway.

"Why don't you go give Carol a break from caring for Judith." he says to his youngest daughter, who kisses his cheek and goes to do just that.

"Could I talk to you for a second?" Rick asks quietly so no one will overhear. Hershel pats the seat next to him in encouragement, and Rick comes to sit beside him.

"I found Carl reading your bible the other day" He starts, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin as he collects his thoughts. "I sat him down and had a talk with him about Daryl. I made sure he knew that Daryl wasn't some kinda savior for us but...I don't know. I think he's still curious."

Hershel nods "It's natural for a young boy to be curious about how the world works. I'm not surprised, now that there are so few answers available"

Rick nods and folds his fingers together. "I've got my own opinions on this Hershel, but I think maybe this is something he needs to decide on his own. Maybe it's better for him to have something he can believe in. And that's why I'm here. I wanted to ask that if he comes to you, teach him the best of the Bible. The parts that say to love and be kind, not the parts that shun people. We can't afford that in this world"

Hershel smiles lightly at Rick "Of course" he says softly "I'll do my best to lead him down a good path"

"Thank you" Rick nods, and gets up to go back to scouting, even if he's technically off watch.

* * *

Carol came to see him after a few days had passed and Daryl seemed to be avoiding them. He's perched on his bed in his cell, sharpening his knives in silence when she drops by.

"Everything all right?" She asks, leaning against the iron bars in the entrance.

"No reason for it not to be" He responds. Carol comes inside unbidden, but Daryl doesn't seem to mind that much. His wings are free for the moment, lightly resting on the mattress, their white color hidden more beneath grime with each passing day.

"You don't seem to be around much lately." She says as she leans on the wall across from him.

"Why would I be?" He snaps "Everyone seems to think I know more than they do. Like I can save 'em or somethin'"

Carol looks down "They know you're not sent from heaven or anything. They're coming back down to earth; just give them some time to get used to it"

Daryl sheaths his knife "Can you honestly say they don't think that? Can you say you don't think it?"

Carol shakes her head, eyes sparkling "Well, if they do you can correct them. And as for me, you've always been a little like my guardian angel, riding to my rescue. Now you just have the wings to prove it" She says. He looks at her for a long moment, and she snickersat him. He scoffs, but she can see him hiding a smile at her words.

* * *

A lot happens after that, but it ends with Merle back with him and that has to count for something. They break off from the group and head off on their own and that stings more than he'd thought it would. Wandering around in the woods after the initial shock of finding his brother wears off, there's one question demanding to be asked that he can't quite bring himself to put into words.

"Hey Merle" he starts "Did we...have any weird relatives?"

Merle snorts in laughter "Depends on what you mean by weird. Old Aunt Jeanine was a dike who had a two-headed dog and once took down a bear with a rock."

Daryl is quiet for a second while he lets that sink in. "No, I mean sorta...I don't know. Different. Like a Siamese twin or...extra limbs or somethin'"

His brother's footfalls stop, and Daryl turns to look behind him. Merle drags his gaze over Daryl's body, a slow smile pulling at his lips when his eyes land on Daryl's poncho.

"Well I'll be damned little brother." He looks him in the eyes "Your wings finally grew in, didn't they?"

The words send Daryl's mind reeling and his heart into his throat.

"Ohhhh ho ho, they did! And here Ma and I'd given up on ya. Figured you just didn't have the genes."

"Ma?" he echoes bewilderedly.

"Oh yeah, it comes from her side of the family. She had 'em too, pair 'o wings like a red-tail hawk. Shoulda seen her face when she saw mine-"

"Yours?" Daryl interrupts, looking past his brother but seeing nothing that he'd somehow missed protruding from under his brother's tank top "But you don't have any"

Merle quiets down then, eyebrows going down inquisitively. "You don't remember, do ya?" It's not really a question.

"Remember what?" Daryl asks, maybe against his better judgment. He remembers the tattoos on his brother's back: black, sharp lined wings that seemed an odd choice for his brother.

Merle nods after a moment, saying "That's alright, let me show ya"

Before Daryl can react, Merle pulls his tank top up over his head, revealing his heavily muscular chest. Daryl tries not to look at the faded scars that wrap around onto ribs and hips from his brother's back. He doesn't have to try long, as his brother takes a deep, steadying breath and rolls his shoulders on the exhale, and Daryl's eyes widen when he glimpses the arch of wings over his brother's shoulders. They grow upwards and outwards as Merle rolls his head back and then around again, ending with his eyes on his little brother when his full wings frame him. Merle's wings are big, twice the size or more than Daryl's own, imposing, and black as night.

Daryl feels entranced by them. He moves forward slowly, unable to look away from the dark shine that his brother's black feathers gleam with. When he's close enough, he reaches one hand out to touch, but just as his fingers brush the dark wings Merle jerks back. Daryl crash lands back to reality and thinks he may understand the reactions of his group a little better now. Daryl looks up at his brother and sees something he can't recognize in his eyes.

"Hey now little brother, you going to let me see yours or not?"

Daryl grimaces and grips the neck of his poncho defensively. Then he casts his gaze back at his brother's black wings and nods.

He steps back and pulls the poncho over his head, tossing it off to the side and shrugging off the harness Hershel had made for him. It's more comfortable than the belts had been, and far easier to get into and out of, so he'd worn it since it'd been given to him. Once that is done he give one last look at Merle before dropping his gaze and letting his wings unfold. He doesn't need to use his hands anymore, for which he's glad, but it still feels strange to let them loose. He lets out a harsh breath when they're completely undone and after a beat of silence, chances a glance at his brother.

Merle's staring, a frighteningly unreadable gaze steady on his wings. Then he whistles lowly "I'll be damned" he says "What ma wouldn't give to see this, little brother"

Daryl feels his eyebrows draw together at that "What?" He asks.

Merle moves forward then, coming to stand before Daryl "Let's just say that black wings ain't exactly celebrated in our family tree. But white" Merle's hand lands on the hard bone at the top of Daryl's wings "Now that's an entirely different story." Merle's hand trails down Daryl's feathers the wrong way toward his back, ruffling them rather unpleasantly "What are you doing?" Daryl asks, fluffing his feathers unconsciously. Merle looks amused "Just returning the favor from when mine grew in, little brother" He replies as his fingers reach the mostly healed cuts the Cheese wire left on him. "What happened here?"

Daryl tries to shrug his brother's hand off his wing, replying "I tried t' get rid of 'em. Didn't work."

Merle's hand tightens on his wing instantly at his words "Ya did _what_?"

Daryl takes a moment to take in his brother's expression. He knows it, that angry disbelief he'd only seen a few times before, but he doesn't quite understand what had brought it on this time.

"I tried to cut 'em off" He clarifies, apprehension coursing through him. Merle's jaw works for a moment before he speaks "Coulda killed yourself, idiot"

"Didn't know that then"

Merle's eyes narrow "But you do now?"

"Hershel told me, 'bout the artery" He supplies.

"They know?" he jerks his head back the way they'd come, indicating the group from the prison. Daryl nods. Merle lets go of Daryl's wing and seems to regain his composure. Then suddenly his hand is fisted in the front of Daryl's shirt, yanking him forward.

"If you ever try some stupid shit like that again, little brother, I'll kill you myself." he lets go with that, then turns to pick up his shirt where he dropped it. Daryl is still trying to get a handle on the situation when Merle straightens back up and pulls his wings back into his skin. It's such a shock that it isn't until the tattoos that are Merle's wings are covered and his brother is stalking off into the woods that he remembers how to speak.

"How'd you do that?" He asks, grabbing his things and catching up easily.

"What?" Merle snaps, looking around as if he knows where they're going. Daryl covertly takes the lead again, steering them toward the creak.

"Pull your wings back in"

Merle looks at him, normal cockiness back in place. "I always could. Ma's shrank. Looks like yours fold"

Daryl makes a displeased face, but a cry from up ahead draws his attention.

They're up on the bridge, the family disappearing down the road while Daryl finally lowers his crossbow.

"What was that-" Merle starts, but he's cut off as more walkers filter through the cars to their left.

"Shit" Merle says lowly, backing toward the other end of the bridge. Daryl follows and Merle picks up speed, pulling ahead just enough to not be able to do anything when a walker they'd missed earlier comes out from under a car and grabs for Daryl, forcing him to block with his crossbow.

"Daryl!" Merle yells as the walker pushes him back against the edge of the bridge. The walker reaches blindly for Daryl, close enough for him to smell its rotting breath. With a yell he manages to force it back and it stays back just long enough for him to draw his knife and sink it into its skull. When the walker falls away he looks around for Merle, and sees him fighting off a few stragglers from the horde coming their way. They're stragglers because most of them are either on their way to or already around Daryl. He curses and backs up, but the edge of the bridge meets him his first step.

"Daryl!" Merle yells again, stress clear in his voice. Daryl looks over the edge of the bridge, a rather obvious solution coming to mind.

"Merle, Just go!" He yells over the moaning of the walkers as he climbs onto the guard wall on the bridge.

"The hell you doin'?!" Merle yells back. Daryl doesn't respond as the walkers draw in closer, just turns and extends his wings and jumps before he can change his mind.

At first he thinks he's got it, just a split second in. Then his full weight reaches his wings and he can't breathe, the muscles in his chest pull agonizingly tight- but he's gliding, and the feeling almost makes the sensation of being torn in half okay. Halfway down his body buckles and he lands hard in the creek bed, scuffing his hands and knees on the sharp rocks under the water. He gasps for breath it hurts to draw in, and swears he'd just shredded the muscles in his chest.

"Daryl!" Merle is suddenly beside him, hauling him to his feet. "The hell little brother, you grow wings and suddenly you think you're a paratrooper? You can't just fucking _fly_ because you feel like it!"

Daryl would have agreed if he had the words. As it is, they have other things to talk about when they get far enough away to do so.

* * *

_Merle is hunched over out on the deck, his head cradled in his hands. From his back, two raven-black wings arc upward and then flare out along the faded wood. Daryl's perception moves closer, close enough to touch, and then tiny hands do just that.  
"Pretty" he says as his fingers comb through downy feathers "Pretty! Fly"_

_Merle moves, his hands falling away from his face as he turns to his little brother. Daryl stares up into the young, watery eyes of his older brother "Pretty" he says again. Merle's face contorts at the word, and suddenly he's hauled into Merle's lap, his brother's head buried in his shoulder._

_"What's wrong Merle?" Daryl asks "Why are you crying?"_

_"I'm not crying!" he snaps, but his voice is shaking._

_"Don't cry. Fly. Fly! Pretty wings" Daryl giggles and reaches back to pet Merle's wings again. Merle makes a sound that could be a sob or a laugh. "Stupid Daryl" he mutters._

Daryl's eyes open lazily as he drifts out of sleep. He sits on the roof of the prison, enjoying the quiet he finds there. It's rare to find a moment of peace with the world the way it had become, so he makes sure to enjoy it while it lasts. A shadow passes over his head and he glances up to see an eagle flying high above the prison. Idly he thinks about the meal it would make and looks down at his crossbow. It doesn't have the range he would need to take the bird down, unfortunately. Maybe just another fifty feet or so and he could. He watches the bird for some time, not thinking of much; until he is thinking of something. Being up that high could be helpful. If he was up that high, he could catch that stupid bird and then some. He glances back at the long expanse of the prison roof. He doubts anyone will see him up here, no matter what he got up to. Hershel said he could fly if he figured it out. Daryl sets his crossbow aside and gets to his feet. It's worth a shot, at least.


End file.
